"You smell delicious," he whispered roughly, fingers grazing the rounded curve of the side of one breast. "And you feel so… God, I love to touch you."
"… love to touch you too," she murmured, nearly incoherent in her breathlessness. With her words her slender arms slid beneath his shirt. Her hands played over his broad smooth back, fingers tracing the contours of corded muscles. Nick shuddered, and with a low growl of desire, his lips hardened, exerting an exquisite twisting pressure. The soft shape of her lips clung to his as she responded, her mouth opening wider, inviting the invading thrust of tongue that tasted the sweetness within.
Though Laine seemed to melt against him, she didn't feel close enough even yet. The fingers of one hand tangled in the springy hair on his nape, urging with slight pressure a rougher taking of her mouth. He complied, devouring her lips, catching the tender bottom curve between his teeth to tug open her mouth even wider to the marauding seduction of his. Blazing desire rushed the blood through her veins, overheating her skin until she felt almost faint with dizzying sensations.
Only the whisper of a breeze rustling the trees' leaves, the rhythmic rush of the ocean, and their own irregular breathing disturbed the night silence, and with Nick, Laine felt lost in a world no one else could share. She offered no resistance even when he deftly undid the buttons of her shirt and removed it, allowing it to drop with a swish to the floor beside the chaise. Then, when her lace bra joined the shirt on the floor, she could only breathe a soft sigh, signaling acquiescence. Drowsily, through the fringe of thick lashes, she watched with half-closed eyes as his strong, tan hands moved toward her breasts, whose rapid rise and fall accelerated perceptibly as he caressed with a warm, sure touch. Pleasantly rough fingertips traced the ivory smooth skin round and round until every sloping inch had been kindled into a consuming fire.
By the time Nick closed his mouth around one swollen peak then the other, possessing her with moist pulling pressure, she was moaning softly, every nerve ending exquisitely receptive, her breathing shallow. Nick's breathing, too, was uneven when his mouth covered hers again to plunder soft pliant lips.
With trembling fingers she unbuttoned his shirt, her palms easing over his warm, smooth skin with torturing slowness. She savored the feel of him, the very scent and taste of him. Moving her mouth from his, she ran her tongue down the sweep of his neck and muscular shoulder, then up again, circling his ear until he groaned, an utterly masculine, uninhibited sound of pleasure that aroused her even further.
Inexperienced as she was, Laine could not help but respond to Nick's nearness; she had never felt the kind of intoxicating exhilaration that now seemed to rule her, to compel her to lovingly explore the contours of his hard muscular body. He was like a drug to her senses, a drug she could never get enough of. His deep sighs made her realize with stunning clarity how very right it felt to be in his arms, how much she wanted their lovemaking to go on and on.
Endearments whispered close to her ear accompanied the swift unfastening of the snap on her waistband and the subsequent lowering of her shorts' zipper. Laine gasped as his hand slipped beneath the khaki fabric and glided possessively across her flat abdomen. Through the fabric of her panties, his skin scorched her own, but though his touch was an unbelievable pleasure, she tensed when his hand slid downward. She caught his wrist and brought that hand back upward to her waist, where she held it still.
"Nick," she breathed, fighting her desire and his as she pulled away from him. Her eyes flickered open as his did and she felt impaled by the gleam of passion ablaze in the green depths. Yet, she resisted the need to surrender to him. Innate caution and a wariness ingrained after years of standing on the sidelines combined to strengthen self-restraint. She took a deep breath. "I… it's late. It's time for bed, don't you think?"
"God, I hope that's an invitation," he muttered huskily, his jaw hardening as she shook her head. There was more than a hint of reluctance in his arms as he released her. "Then run away, Laine."
She scrambled up from the chaise and he lay back on it, one arm upflung to cover his eyes. Gathering her clothes up from the deck's planking, she wanted to say something, anything, to him but could think of nothing to say that would suffice. At last, she brushed a hand over his in silent apology and rushed inside, across the darkened great room, and down the long hall to her lonely bed.
The next two days were a delight. Nick was a man who knew how to play, and Laine remembered how, just by being with him. They enjoyed a couple of games of tennis, though she was no match for him, but most often they were swimming or just lounging on the beach. They walked miles along the sand, usually with Greta gamboling along beside them, and their topics of conversation were endlessly varied. Nothing about Nick was ever boring. Laine liked everything about him; in fact, by the end of the second full day, she knew that the liking was swiftly, inexorably becoming loving. She was falling in love with him and was powerless to do anything to prevent it, which made it increasingly more difficult to resist whenever they touched, accidentally or otherwise, and couldn't stop touching. With every fiber of her being Laine sensed Nick's growing frustration each time she forced herself to draw away before surrender became inevitable. Yet she had to resist. She was in love and needed love in return, something he might never be able to give. So the battle of wills continued, and she could only be grateful the Fredericks were staying at the house. Though she and Nick spent little time with them, their mere presence was reassuring, especially during the nights.
For that reason the news she heard Monday morning came as quite a surprise and an upset. After breakfast, while the two women were tidying the kitchen, Liz claimed Laine's complete attention when she breathed a long dismayed sigh.
"Sometimes I really dislike Bob's profession," she explained with a resigned smile. "There's so little time to relax, and I resent that. It seems there's always some pressing case he has to attend to. I do wish we didn't have to go back to Atlanta today. I especially wanted to get better acquainted with you."
Laine felt rooted to the spot. "You mean you're… leaving here today?"
"Pity, isn't it? I wish we didn't have to go, but Bob says we must get back."
"Maybe you can visit again soon. You're welcome back here any time. You know that, Liz," Nick said from the doorway, shifting a dark unreadable gaze immediately to Laine. He stepped into the kitchen as Liz was leaving it, shaking her head and patting his arm in passing.
For several seconds Laine's thoughts found no voice as indignation rose in her, unfurling scarlet flags of color in her cheeks. Posture stiff and unyielding, chin outthrust, she at last muttered, "I can hardly believe this. That you would plan deliberately to…"
"I planned nothing," Nick interrupted tersely, taking one long step to eliminate the distance between them, practically cornering Laine between cabinets and the outside kitchen door. Placing a hand on the wall on each side of her—in effect, trapping her there—he met the resentment in her blue eyes unflinchingly. "I didn't know until a few minutes ago that Bob and Liz were leaving. He received an urgent call early this morning and decided they must leave today."
"Is that true?" she questioned sharply, longing to believe him yet afraid to. "Is it, Nick?"
"You seem to be forgetting you agreed to come here before I ever mentioned Bob and Liz. And since you did, I had no reason to manufacture an elaborate lie, did I?"
Caught somewhat off balance by that indisputable truth, Laine thoughtfully nibbled the side of her upper lip, a tiny frown marring her brow. "Oh, I don't know what to think now. It just seems so convenient that…"
"Do you want to go running home then?" he asked bluntly, impatience hardening his chiseled features. "I won't stop you from going, you know. But I find it hard to believe you really think I tricked you into coming here. Do you?"
"No, I guess I really don't," she admitted, suspicion slowly dying though a few lingering doubts remained.
"But still…"
"Laine," he murmured, moving closer
, cupping her neck in a large yet gentle hand, his thumbs lifting her chin. His voice lowered, became more deeply coaxing, almost seductive in timbre. "You wanted to come here before you knew about Bob and Liz, so what difference does it make now that they have to leave?"
Laine gazed up at him, nearly mesmerized by his deeply resonant tone, the soft light in his eyes, and the fingertips that were playing havoc with her senses as they slowly brushed back and forth along the line of her jaw. The situation was different now. She was in love with him, which made their being alone together infinitely more dangerous. But she could hardly tell him that. Such an admission would only serve to embarrass him and humiliate her.
"I suppose I just got used to having the Fredericks around," she said instead. "But if they have to leave, that's just the way it is."
"So you'll stay anyway?"
"Yes," she whispered, unable to abide the thought of leaving him, though she knew what she was risking with her decision. "I'll stay."
"I wonder why," he whispered back, searching her face with a serious intensity that nearly took her breath away. Then he released her and stepped away. "Maybe you'll feel more comfortable, though, if we spend our evenings with some of the couples I know on the island?"
"That sounds like a nice idea," she answered, trying not to sound too relieved. "I think I'll like meeting new people."
"We'll see," was his noncommittal answer, but judging from the icy green glint in his eyes, he was far from pleased. And in that moment, the tension they had nearly managed to eliminate during the past two days closed in on them. To Laine it seemed almost like a heavy curtain of mist falling between them.
CHAPTER SIX
Nick had planned it. He must have. Laine truly suspected he had deliberately arranged to have dinner Monday evening with the most boring couple he knew. Within minutes after meeting Thad and Joyce Brice, Laine realized it was going to be an excruciatingly long evening. Though Laine herself was reasonably impressed by the most famous restaurant on Sea Island, that resort mecca located directly east of St. Simons, Joyce Brice acted as if she had died and gone to heaven. Although she repeatedly assured Laine that she and her husband regularly dined at the Priory, she belied those assurances by practically squealing every time she spotted a movie star or politician, or even one of the better-known local gentry. Worst of all, at one point she actually flitted from table to table, eliciting some irritated glances from notables who, after all, had chosen to stay at the Priory for its acclaimed privacy. They were seeking escape from people like Joyce Brice. To no avail. There she was, swooping from table to table like a noisy, gawking seabird.
Laine was embarrassed, especially so when Joyce returned to their table and proceeded to gossip about people who were seated no more than a few yards away. Unfortunately, her husband, Thad, seemed amused by her insipid chatter and even encouraged it. All in all, it was the dullest meal Laine had ever endured. She glanced often at Nick, whose expression remained completely inscrutable. Surely he was being Bored to death too.
At last the meal ended, and while Joyce Brice craned' her neck this way and that to better ogle famous faces, Nick mercifully asked Laine to dance.
"Oh, yes, let's do," she said, unable to suppress an audible sigh of relief. It was a relief that would be shortlived. The moment Nick placed his arm round her waist and they began dancing, she knew that a barrier was still there between them, as it had been all day. Laine sighed, but Nick gave no indication that he noticed. It was a silent dance, and the touch of Nick's hands was impersonal until, when the music ended, he draped an arm across her shoulders almost companionably as they walked back to their table.
"Well, Laine," he murmured, looking down at her. "Having a good time?"
"Dandy," she shot back, pretending she didn't notice the trace of amusement that lifted the corners of his sensuously shaped mouth.
By midnight Laine was finding it necessary to hide a succession of yawns behind her hand as Joyce Brice chattered on incessantly. Finally, when Laine felt sure she would soon fall asleep in her chair, Nick took pity on her and ended her misery—and his own. As Nick drove her back across the causeway to St. Simons, he had very little to say. When they arrived home, however, he did take her hand in his as they walked to the house. But once inside, to her disappointment, he released it and went to the bar to pour himself a drink. When she declined his invitation to join him, he stood, one elbow resting on the bar, watching over the rim of his glass as she prowled restlessly around the great room.
"Something wrong, Laine?" he queried, his tone unusually sardonic. "You don't seem able to relax. Surely you're not still worried about being here alone with me? After I've done my best all day to convince you that you have nothing to fear?"
"Oh, is that what you've been doing?" Stopping behind one sofa, she smiled wryly. "And I thought maybe you were just getting tired of me." When he neither returned the smile nor answered, she sighed. "Oh, okay, maybe I did give you the wrong impression this morning. I'm sorry if I seemed not to trust you. I really think I do, you know."
"When you decide for certain, let me know," he answered, darkened eyes boring into her as he put his glass down on the bar. "Right now, maybe you should go to bed, since we plan to go sailing early in the morning."
Though it was an obvious dismissal, Laine hesitated, unhappiness gathering in a knot in her chest as she realized how futile it would be to try to explain feelings she didn't understand herself. One thing she did understand was that Nick was finding her uncertainty frustrating and boring. And the last thing she wanted to do was bore him. Drawing herself up to her full height, which wasn't considerable, she returned his gaze steadily, self-protective coolness graying her eyes as she simply asked outright, "Maybe you'd rather I just go home tomorrow?"
Nick's expression didn't alter. "Is that what you want to do?"
"Is that what you'd like me to do?"
"Laine, for God's sake!" he nearly growled, straightening by the bar, lean body so taut he reminded her of a tiger poised to spring. "For once, can't you say what you want? Do you want to go home tomorrow or don't you?"
She shrugged. "That depends. If I'm boring you…"
"This conversation is boring me, but you never do," he muttered, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. "How could you possibly bore me when I never know what to expect from you?"
"I never know what to expect from you, either," she retorted, appealing pink color tinting her cheeks. "You're a very… unpredictable man."
"Then that's settled—we don't bore each other. Now, about tomorrow, do you want to go or stay?"
"Do you want me to stay?"
Muttering an oath beneath his breath, he started toward her, his expression menacing. "There's a limit to my patience, Laine, and I don't intend to stand here all night waiting for you to tell me what you want to do."
"All right then, yes," she said calmly, glad he couldn't know how her heartbeat quickened when he stopped close in front of her. Looking up at him, she forced herself to ignore the dawning realization that he was even more dangerous than she had imagined him to be. Smoldering beneath the surface of cool deliberate control was a wealth of emotions that she instinctively knew ran deep. She got the distinct impression it would take no more than one wrong word from her, or even a touch, to release searing passions that would quickly consume both of them. Overwhelmingly aware of his latent power and her own extreme vulnerability, she carefully chose her words, "I would like to stay, Nick. That's what I want to do. And you're right, it's late. I think I'll go to bed now. Goodnight."
She started to step around him, then gasped softly when her right wrist was captured in an iron-hard grip. Her eyes darted up to meet his and darkened with confusion when he gave her an unexpectedly indulgent smile.
"There's something you should know, Laine," he said very softly. "I'm not going to make this decision for you by seducing you, despite your uncertainty. In my bed, I want a woman who knows what she wants and why she wants it, a woman wh
o's more than willing. Understand?"
"Such a blunt summation of your requirements, counselor," she replied tersely, somehow managing not to blush. "I'd have to be rather dense not to understand exactly what you mean. And I'll certainly keep what you said in mind."
With that show of bravado, she resolutely extricated her wrist from the strong fingers which held it, then proceeded down the hallway at a slow leisurely pace she hoped would convince him he hadn't disconcerted her in the least. Once in her room, however, with the door closed behind her, she flung herself across the wide bed, nuzzling her cheek against the coverlet. So Nick wanted total abandon from her and she wanted love from him. An impossible situation, she thought bleakly, knowing they could probably never reconcile such different needs.
When dusk faded into darkness Wednesday evening, Chinese lanterns illuminated the small garden party of Nick's friends, Walt and Joan Bennett. Seated on a bench in the rose arbor, Laine breathed in the sweet scent and smiled contentedly at Nick as he approached. When he presented her with a glass of white wine, she took it but wrinkled her nose in a slight grimace. "I really shouldn't have this, you know. I've already had two glasses since we got here."
"You've also had dinner. But if you'd rather not have it…"
"I'll just take a sip now and then," she told him as he joined her on the bench, placing the tumbler of Scotch and water he'd brought for himself on the wrought-iron table beside him. For a moment he sat silently, arms resting on his thighs, hands hanging loosely between his knees as he looked out at the few guests milling over the flagstone patio. Suddenly, he turned to look at Laine, then reached around her to pluck a perfect crimson rosebud from its bed of green foliage clinging to a white lattice. After snapping off an excess of stem and removing a tiny thorn, he slipped the flower into Laine's hair, above her left ear, smiling when she touched gentle fingertips to the velvety petals.
Passion's Price Page 9
